I received a text
from Lauren (our older daughter) in Chattanooga yesterday to say that there was
an active shooter somewhere but they were all safe. She was locked in her
office, Ambrose was in lock down at his preschool, and Brian was working in
Dalton, Georgia. I immediately went to my news sources for all the information
I could find. As the tragic events unfolded my immediate reaction was one of
thanksgiving to know that these people that I love so desperately were okay.
Then, upon learning that four Marines had been killed and at least one
policeman had been injured I was overwhelmed with sorrow for their families who
were receiving news that the people they loved so desperately were not okay.
As my heart
oscillated between the warmth of thankfulness and the ache of sorrow I read for
the first time the name of the suspected gunman: Muhammad
Youssef Abdulazeez. Then, I learned he was a Muslim and my heart shifted
dramatically from thankfulness and sorrow to full-on rage. My unchecked imagination
started an anger-fueled game of connect the dots, any dots, make them up, if
necessary, but connect the dots that reveal the image of another one of "those people." As the full weight of what happened in Chattanooga yesterday bore down,
the thankfulness for the safety of my kin grew more profound. Similarly, my
sorrow for those whose lives were tragically and irrevocably redirected
deepened. And…here’s where my typing slows down…my anger toward this person (at
this point it was still “these people’) responsible for this nightmare burned with a
searing glow.
May I
please be honest? I feel like a leaf in a whirlwind of emotion with no
sense of where I’ll come out. I’m struggling to reconcile all of these
responses with Jesus who is Lord of all of life and, I sense, is patiently waiting
for me to land somewhere. I’m confident he is thankful for lives that were
spared. No doubt he weeps with the families who are beginning to wrap their
heads and hearts around their loss.
But
what about the anger? Jesus got angry, right? Sure he did. In Matthew 23 he
called the Jewish leaders names and shamed them for corrupting the Law of
Moses. In John 2 he got boiling mad at those Jews who were co-opting the temple
for their own purposes and ran them off. Yes indeed, he was furious with those
Jews. Except…wait…he was a…Jew. The unavoidable reality is that he loved the
Jewish people. In Luke 19 he cried over Jerusalem because he wanted the best
for them. Yet, he did get angry with certain Jewish individuals who were acting
out of their own blurred vision of their faith and harming innocent people in
the process. Yes, Jesus had moments of intense anger, but it was always
directed toward specific people who were mistreating people simply because they
wanted their way, which, of course, was not His way.
At
this point I now sense the place where Jesus is pointing for me to land. It’s a
place where anger is specified and justified, a place where anger can at least
be safely parked and diffused or at best be redeemed through reflection and
action. Though I have a tendency to not think or speak badly about the dead, I
am now reconciled with my anger at Muhammad Youssef Abdulazeez, and that’s important. Because we
know who killed those Marines, even if we don’t yet know exactly why, I can
direct my anger toward the person responsible and away from people with similar
names, religious affiliations, and physical appearances who aren’t. Muslims
didn’t kill those Marines. A 24-year-old man, perhaps with a blurred vision of his
faith, killed them. I’m angry with him and any others who may have contributed to his radicalization, if that turns out to be the case. And as I sort through thankfulness for
the safety of my family and sorrow for the families who grieve, I will work on
sorrow for the family of Muhammad Youssef Abdulazeez who seem to be as shocked
by what happened as everyone else. By directing my anger toward a specific
person who bears culpability I direct it away from a group of people who don’t.
And while I can’t do anything to undo the tragedy that has taken place, I can
do something about tragically hating someone because of my implied guilt due
to tangential association.
That’s
where I’ve landed and it was a bumpy landing. Frankly, I’m still sort of
twitching in the breeze, waiting to see if it’s anywhere near where Jesus was
pointing. I hope so. I don’t want him to be angry with me. Again.
Prayers for Chattanooga. Prayers for grieving families. Prayers of thanksgiving that it wasn't worse. Prayers for laser-like anger that can be redemptive in the the hands of our Savior who understands how we feel and not a random spray of anger that wipes out groups of people who are likely just as angry.
Blessings,
Larry
